


The Boy

by madame_faust



Category: The Phantom of the Opera (TV 1990)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-04-17 18:12:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14194776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: Snippets from a slight canon-divergent AU of the Charles Dance miniseries.Everyone's heard tell of the Opera Ghost. Some say it's the tormented soul of a victim of the Commune, playing mournful music behind the walls. Others say it's a tricky poltergeist, or a helpful sprite, responsible for everything from the ballerinas' lost toe-shoes, to completing a building project the scene-shifters swore they'd left unfinished.They say Gerard Carriere, the company manager, knew something about it. But if pressed directly on the subject he'd only shrug and smile sadly. "Every good theatre needs a ghost."





	1. The Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I adore the Charles Dance miniseries, it might be my favorite take on the plot of _Phantom of the Opera_ to date, but some bits of backstory never rang true for me. I really like the notion that Leroux!Erik left home as a young man willingly, to spare his family shame. It's easy to see Cherik thinking along the same lines, seeing as how he's a sweet, sensitive boy - and unlike Leroux!Erik, his father never actually claimed him...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A traveling fair has come to Paris. It's said that one of the attractions is a human boy with the face of the devil. The company manager goes out under cover of darkness to see for himself.

Jean-Claude had been mistaken. That was not his... _his._ The boy. His boy. Wishful thinking, only. Erik was...gone. Gone. 

But Gerard was acting outside himself, drawing nearer and nearer, feet urging him on, despite what he told himself.

_Just to be sure. To be sure it isn't him. Then I'll go._

The young man with the bandages on his face was brushing down and watering the horses, head bent. His hair was cut close to the scalp, a dull red-brown. Erik's hair was bright red, even in the dimness of their flat with the curtains drawn and the gas low. Bright coppery red like _hers_ ; that was why he'd called him 'Erik,' as a pet name, he told her. Erik the Red. _She_ never called him that. _She_ was traditional in one way: a boy should have his father's name, she thought. Erik wasn't the name upon the lips of the priest who'd baptized him - of course they'd summoned a priest at once after his birth, not sure if he would live the night, but Gerard had never called the boy by his Christian name, the one his mother gave him. To Gerard he was always 'Erik.' 

There were other differences too, but still he did not turn round, go back to the Opera, equal parts disappointed and relieved. This young man was tall and broad-shouldered, Erik was reedy, slender, like his mother. Not rough, country-born and bred like Gerard. It was easier, sometimes, to think that they had no relation to one another at all, excepting _her._ She loved them both. And that was all they had in common, Gerard could delude himself like that and did for weeks at a time, so long as he didn't look into the boy's eyes -

His eyes. Gerard must have come too close. A breaking of a branch underfoot, an exhale of breath, too loud, too sharp, for the young man raised his head and looked at him. The instant their eyes met, the two froze in place. 

Hazel-green. Like a forest, _she_ said. So beautiful, she used to tell him then, later, Erik. Such beautiful eyes.

"Gerard?" he spoke and the voice was a stranger's. As thoroughly broken as the tired horses he tended. Deep and low, but hesitant for all that. He held himself stiffly, this young man with his boy's eyes. Not like Erik. Not like Erik at all, who hovered round by the door every night at ten o'clock, long after he should have been in bed. Waiting to pounce on him and be regaled with stories about the Opera. 

But the _way_ he said his name - no one pronounced his name the way Erik did. Not like his parents, impatient and exhausted (when the managed to call him by the right name and not mistake him for one of his brothers). Not even like _her_ , warmly, with fondness. No, Erik pronounced his name in a manner that Gerard associated with priests invoking the name of the Lord. With love and reverence and such deep abiding trust. It made Gerard nervous, for what had he done for the boy, really? Nothing other than be only gateway to the world. If Erik's world was their flat and the rest of the earth heaven, then Gerard was, while not God, at least St. Peter. Holding the keys, admitting him glimpses here and there, then shutting him away again. Protecting him, the only other person who'd never abandoned him. Who had always been there.

Until he wasn't. Until he let him down. Until _now._

" _Erik..._ "

Gerard was sure he'd spoken, but as he watched Erik - yes, yes, Erik, of _course_ he was, how could he have doubted that this was _his_ Erik? - lowered his beautiful eyes to the ground and began to turn his head back to the horses. His shouldered hitched and his hands shook as he took up the brush again. 

"Erik."

The head raised. Those eyes, so familiar, _yes_ his boy's eyes, met his again and Gerard really _looked_ at him. Taller, nearly of a height with his father, turning from the cusp of gawky adolescence to manhood. Wearing patched and dirty clothes, long-fingered hands filthy and calloused from labor. The stained linen bandages pressing against the skin, showing the places where it protruded unnaturally or dipped, gaunt and drawn, fluttering slightly and pressed taut and flat, alarmingly, in the very center of his face. The eyes and the mouth alone were unscathed and the mouth dropped open in dull surprise. The brush fell to the dirt, landing on the ground with a muffled thud. 

This time, it was Erik who spoke without making a sound. Whose mouth formed the word 'Why?' but who could not find breath enough to give it life. It was terrible, it struck Gerard as being terrible, to find Erik speechless. Almost as terrible as finding him in such a state. Almost as terrible as losing him in the first place. 

Gerard nearly ran to him, gathered him up in his arms as though he were a child. Almost told him _everything_ he'd ever wished to say: _I'm sorry. I've done wrong by you. I love you. You're my son, and I love you._

But he stood back. Only extended his hand, in a half-commanding, half-helpless gesture. "Come...come with me. Come back with me."

Erik glanced backward, at who or what, Gerard did not know. Again his mouth started to ask _Why_ , but he stopped himself. Lips pressed closed and he seemed to find all the answer he wanted in Gerard's eyes. Little fancy, his reading them so well; they were his own eyes, after all. 

"If you'd like," he said in that halting stranger's voice. He did not take Gerard's hand - why would he? He was no longer a child who needed guiding. Gerard let his hand fall back to his side and glanced behind the boy to see if anyone noticed the queer little scene they were playing out. Not a soul so much as glanced at them, out here, in the darkness at the edge of the fair. Why they could have probably made off with the horses, if they dared and no one would have been any the wiser.

But Gerard had no need of horses. He'd found what he had been looking for. Absence was said to make the heart more tenderly disposed to those things that were lost. But that wasn't right; since Erik had been gone, it would be more accurate to say that Gerard had no heart.

Perhaps he'd not had much of one to begin with. Perhaps if he had, then his...then none of it would have happened.

Erik was edging closer to him, looking at him warily, expecting to be cast aside, it seemed. Or publicly rebuked. Gerard was ashamed to admit that he could not summon even a modicum of outrage that he should fear such a thing. He was a wretched excuse for a...

What? A father? _None of this would have happened_ had he been a father.

And as he told himself when Erik was three-years-old. Five-years-old. Fifteen-years old. _It is too late to start now._

Still, he beckoned Erik to follow him, which he did, with surer steps the further they came away from the fair. Gerard's newly-restored heart gave a lurch at the familiarity.

Even as he'd been nothing like a good father, Erik had always been a good son.


	2. A Sea Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Erik was little, he looked down into the water of the underground lake and thought he saw a sea monster staring back up at him; here's a take on that reverse Narcissus story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on the Charles Dance miniseries, with some liberties taken - I refuse to believe Gerard was raising a preschooler under the opera, so they live in an apartment like normal people with a sympathetic landlady (who under no circumstances believed that Belladova was Gerard's "widowed cousin" who came from the country with her poor invalid baby). The deformity I envision as a bit of Leroux coupled with a facial hemangioma. Erik doesn't need rickets on top of everything else. Not sure if Hans Brinker had a French translation in late 1870s, which I imagine this taking place, but Alice in Wonderland did. I feel like Gerard did a lot of reading to the kid to keep him from going stir crazy.

There was a lake beneath the Opera.

Not a glimmering shining lake, like the one in the story of Arthur and the knights, or the frozen lake where Hans Brinker deliberately lost the boys skating race so that another child who needed the money more could win. This lake was not made of shining blue water or silvery frozen ice. Instead the water was dark, black, except for where the light from his guardian's lantern touched the surface. Erik thought it was the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen - the Opera House was the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen. A great golden palace floating above a mystical lake, deep, deep underground.

Gerard told him before that the lake was not magical - that it was not even a lake, really, but a great, vast cistern. A marvel of engineering. When the Opera was being built, he explained, they tried to pump the groundwater out, but despite all the power of eight steam pumps, the ground was still too wet to build upon. 

"Imagine trying to build a great big place, like the Opera House," Gerard attempted to illustrate for him, "upon the seashore. You dig and dig with pail and spade, but no matter what, there's water - more and more the deeper you dig. So M. Garnier decided that, rather than attempting to remove the water, he would contain it. Do you understand?"

Erik nodded solemnly, but he didn't understand - he'd never seen the sea before. Magic, he decided firmly, was the best explanation. 

That was where they were bound, the magical lake below the streets. It was an acceptable compromise; at first he asked Erik asked Gerard whether they might venture up to the rooftop to be close to the stars, but he said no, they'd better not. It was too cold and Erik so little and slight he might fly away!

"You could hold me," Erik insisted, pulling at the scarf Gerard had wound roundabout his face; the wool was terribly itchy. 

Gerard batted Erik's little fingers away from his face and pulled the scarf right back into its original uncomfortable configuration. "I wouldn't trust myself."

"I trust you," Erik insisted, willing his hands to remain by his side, to be _good_ since Gerard only let them have outings if Erik was _exceptionally_ good. He rather thought he was failing in that goal since Gerard's face screwed up into a displeased expression, but his anxieties were alleviated when Gerard merely patted him on the head and said nothing about his being naughty and trying to remove his scarf.

The night was not so very cold that it was necessary, but Gerard said Erik _must_ wear it on their walk to the Opera; he didn't want his boy catching a chill. 

That made Erik smile; when Gerard called him _his_ boy. He hadn't any father or mother - he'd had a mother, once, but she'd gone up to Heaven to be with God and the angels and the baby Jesus. Madame Chouest, their landlady who looked after him when Gerard was at work, said she was with him all the time, though he could not see her. Erik asked whether she might come back; Jesus's own mother came back sometimes, to pay people visits - she'd been in France within Madame Chouest's lifetime, after all and France was far from Jerusalem. Perhaps Erik's mother would do the same. She would only have to come back to Paris where they lived. And perhaps, instead of asking him to recite the Rosary with her, she might sing to him. Erik missed her voice very much, much more than he missed her prayers.

Madame Chouest listened to this logical hope with a frown. "That...is - your mother was a very different sort of woman than the Blessed Virgin. And that's blasphemy anyhow." Then she handed him a rag and told him to help her wash the floors and muttered something about how a child with a mind like that ought to be in school.

But Erik didn't go to school. He didn't go anywhere, really; excepting the Opera when he was extraordinarily good.

Tonight was such a night! It was clear and brisk, all the stars were out, but Erik noted with dismay that they got dimmer and harder to see the closer he and Gerard got to the Avenue de l'Opera. That was when he suggested going on the roof.

No, not the roof, Gerard said. But perhaps the lake, if Erik was good and quiet, and let him get a bit of work done first. 

The inside of the Opera was dark and cold, Gerard was obliged to light the lamps as they made their way down into the basement; he was doing an inventory and Erik was to help! He learnt his sums this way, cataloging old sets and properties and costumes, watching Gerard dutifully record the numbers in a ledger. His handwriting was too poor for Gerard to allow Erik to copy into the Opera's books, but someday, he said, he might hand the job over to him. 

As it was, Erik was only five years old and thus sat idly by as Gerard dutifully looked over his mathematics, making certain his report was neat and accurate for turning in to the management. Being only a small boy, Erik was apt to become fidgety when he was left too long without occupation. Gerard ripped a paper from the ledger and told Erik to fold it up into a boat; if he was only still a little while longer, they could sail it on the lake below-ground.

Erik set to work diligently, only troubling Gerard again to ask for a candle and a bowl of wax to catch the drippings; he knew from previous ventures that if he dipped the hull in wax, it would take longer for his craft to become waterlogged and sink. 

Gerard taught him that. He said that when he was a boy, he and his brothers would sail paper boats on the river near their home. Erik _loved_ hearing stories about when Gerard was a boy, about his seven brothers, his Maman and Papa, he treasured those stories just as much as the books Gerard read to him, when he had time. It was scarcely more wonderful, for a boy with no mother and father nor siblings at all, to hear of knights and wizards than of families living in cozy hamlets in the countryside.

It was only a few minutes after Erik put the finishing touches on his boat that Gerard closed the ledger, thanked him for being so patient and took his hand to lead him into the basement. Gerard had to take a lantern with them, it was so dark and cold. Erik shivered and Gerard looked down at him with a frown.

"Where is your scarf?" he asked, looking about as though he expected to see it stuck on a peg on the staircase.

Erik looked guiltily down at his feet. "I left it upstairs I think."

Gerard sighed and dropped his hand, ordering him to wait by the staircase and not go too near the water without him. He left the lantern and jogged up the steps, taking them two at a time. 

Erik did as he was told; for a few minutes. But he could hear the damp trickling of the water and the wax from the bottom of his boat was slippery on his hands. He might just place it in the water, mightn't he? Usually Gerard took care of that, bending over the edge of the bank, letting Erik keep hold of the string tied about the mast to lead it along. But hadn't Erik just helped with the inventory? Hadn't Gerard said he was nearly old enough to take it all over. He'd be _so_ careful and perhaps he would make Gerard proud of how responsible he'd been. 

Mind settled on the matter, Erik carefully took up the lantern and walked the final few feet to the edge of the water. He placed the lantern on the ground beside him and knelt in the dust and dirt upon the stone, feeling it press into his knees. Erik braced himself with his left hand upon the ledge and took up his boat in his right hand. He leaned out - not too far! - to place the boat gently into the black water. He was _just_ too far to reach, so he scooted forward another inch or so on his knees, leaned a little farther over -

And screamed. 

Gerard found him, some minutes later, screaming and sobbing. He almost upset the lantern as he ran to him, scooping Erik up into his arms as he carried both the boy and lantern, up, up, up to the surface. Once they were back in the properties room, Gerard set Erik on his feet, feeling his arms and legs, squinting at him, face creased with worry. "Did you trip? Did you fall down the stairs? Are you hurt? Erik? Erik!"

Erik gulped, throat hoarse from screaming, tears hot and sticky on his face. "I saw a _monster_!" he insisted.

"A rat?" Gerard guessed. "I told you not to go ahead without - "

"No, no, no!" Erik shouted, hiccuping and choking on his tears. "No! A sea monster! In the water! It's not just a big old pail under the Opera, it's _not_!"

The creases in Gerard's face deepened. "Hush, hush, calm down - there aren't any monsters in that water, Erik, apart from a few fish - you might have seen an eel. Was that it? Think now, just...calm down, now. Breathe and calm down."

"It was a _sea-monster_!" Erik insisted. "It looked like a snake! It was red and black! And it had a mane of fire round its head!"

"It was probably - " Gerard began, but he trailed off. Swallowed. Then picked Erik up, gathering him into his arms in a way he'd not done since Erik was _very_ small. His large hands ran soothing circles up and down Erik's back and he hushed him, more quietly now. Not trying to explain the monster away. He only held him and shuddered slightly, as if he'd seen it too. 

Eventually Erik's sobs tapered off and he let Gerard gently daub at his face with his handkerchief. 

"Come along," Gerard said, wrapping Erik back up in his scarf. "Let's go home."

Erik wound up being carried most of the way, having exhausted himself with crying. Gerard picked him up easily, as though he was as weightless as the paper boat Erik made. He sat him down on the edge of his bed, took off his shoes and stockings, helped him into his nightshirt and and tucked him into bed. As he made to rise and turn off the gas, Erik gripped his sleeve.

"Please don't go," he begged with a catch in his throat, tears threatening. "I'm frightened, what if, in the dark, the monster comes back? What if it followed us home?"

Gerard passed a hand over his face, covering his eyes as he replied. "There's nothing to be frightened of."

"But...but I saw - "

"I know what you saw," Gerard said, swallowing thickly. His eyes were red when he moved his hand away and Erik was concerned that Gerard was angry with him. But Gerard's voice was soft and tender when he repeated, "I know what you saw Erik, but...it wasn't a monster. Not at all."

"It was _horrible_ ," Erik insisted. Gerard said nothing, he looked at him for a long time. Then, he removed Erik's hand from his wrist and patted the back of his fingers gently. 

"Wait here," he said. Before Erik could raise his voice to protest, he held up a hand and continued. "I'll be right back. Count backward from thirty. I'll be back before you reach one."

Erik did as he was told, the backward counting giving him something to think about other than his fear. Good as his word, Gerard was back, holding something in his hand; Erik saw the back of a black leather frame. A photograph?

Gerard sat down at the edge of the bed, lifting the glass away from the frame. A clever little piece of metal helped the glass stand up and Erik wondered what the strange thing was - a trap? It looked a little bit like a mouse trap, but made of glass. A monster trap?

"This is..." Gerard paused, looking between Erik and the trap, seeming to think better of explaining. But he evidently steeled himself, for he pressed on without quite meeting Erik's eyes. "A mirror."

"Like Alice through the looking-glass?" Erik asked. "Will it take the monster to Wonderland?"

A faint smile curved Gerard's lips under his mustache, but it quickly vanished. "No, no, this is...an ordinary mirror. It doesn't...lead anywhere. It only shows an image of what stands before it. See?"

Gerard angled the mirror toward Erik. At first he saw nothing, but then Gerard passed his hand before the glass - a double-image of his hand reflected back. He wiggled his fingers. The hand in the mirror did the same. Erik laughed, his fear almost forgotten; what a wonderful trick!

"How does it do that?" Erik asked, pushing down the covers and crawling closer to get a better look. Gerard put a hand out to stay his progress.

"Silver backing," he replied. "And glass. Silver is reflective, you see, it shows back an image of what stands before it. Under the glass, it shows a...a perfect image of the thing in front of it. And that image is called a reflection. Do you understand?"

Erik nodded, wondering what all this had to do with sea monsters. Gerard lifted the glass higher; instantly a second Gerard appeared in the glass, with the same mustache and thick brown hair and the worry lines on his brow and around his eyes. His eyes were _reflected_ too, green and brown all mixed up with little gold flecks inside. 

"See?" Gerard asked and the double-Gerard's mouth moved as he spoke, but there was no answering echo from inside the glass. Curious and interesting. But what had it to do with Erik's monster?

Erik nodded. Gerard lowered the mirror, placing the glass face-down between them.

"I'm going to pick the mirror back up," Gerard said slowly. "And...when you look inside, you'll see your own face. As you saw mine. And remember, it's your reflection. Your own face looking back, the same as you saw mine. Do you...do you understand?"

"Yes," Erik said, looking up at Gerard, who was turning the mirror over. "But what about the monster?"

"There wasn't a monster, Erik," Gerard said, closing his eyes, shaking his head. "There was never a monster. Look."

Erik looked down. The monster looked back.

He scrambled away, sharply, breath caught in his throat. Gerard said - Gerard said - Gerard said...

One of Gerard's hands came round and caught the back of his head gentle before he hit it against the headboard.

"Erik," he said more firmly, fingers winding in his hair. "Look. _Look._ "

Erik didn't want to look; he screwed his eyes up, but even so all the could see was the monstrous image from the water, from the glass only now it was clearer and all the worse for it. An awful mess of puckered red and purple flesh, sagging and bloated around two gaping holes in the middle, like a snake's nose, and a wide, horrible screaming mouth.

"I don't want to," Erik whispered. "You said it wouldn't come. You said it wouldn't follow us - you said the monster - "

"That is _not_ a monster, Erik," Gerard said forcefully. Then, more quietly. "It's only...it's only you. Your face. Look."

Erik pried his eyes open and looked. There he saw the white of Gerard's sleeve, the pale skin on the inside of his wrist, fingers disappearing to the red curling hair - not flames as he first supposed - around...

The monster in the mirror was crying. Tears were dripping down the fat ridges and bumps, some disappearing in the crater in the middle corresponding to a burning Erik felt in the center of his own face. The chin, white and untouched, trembled in time with Erik's gasping breaths. It reflected Gerard's white shirtsleeve now, the stiff cuff, his pale wrist leading to the hand that Erik could feel cradling the back of his head. If _that_ was Gerard's hand then that meant...that meant that the monster was...

"You didn't see a monster, Erik," Gerard repeated. "You saw only yourself."

It took some weeks for Erik to understand that the image he saw in the glass _was_ his own face. Gerard no longer hid his shaving mirror; he placed it face-down on his dresser, out of Erik's reach only if he did not resort to dragging a kitchen chair into his guardian's bedroom. Erik only did so when Gerard was at work and Madame Chouest was busy. For a time, he was morbidly fascinated by the image he saw staring solemnly back at him with wide, frightened eyes. He'd not given much thought to what he looked like before, and Gerard discouraged him from touching his face too much when he was small; if punctured, the skin bled terrifically. Now Erik had some idea as to _why_. 

Understanding did not come all at once. Slowly, he realized that the answers to many of his questions (why he was not permitted to venture farther than the little back garden of their flat during the daytime, why he'd never seen the sea, why Gerard only took him to the park or the Opera, at nighttime, or in a heavy rain, when no one else was about. Why he didn't go to school, as other children did, why the priest visited them at home for Holy Communion and they never went to church) boiled down to only one answer. It was all to do with his face. 

It was silly, he supposed, to be frightened of himself, but Erik felt a little tingle of fear go up and down his back every time he looked in the mirror; he mightn't have looked at all, except there was one thing he could look on and be comforted by: his own eyes. They looked as eyes ought to. They looked just like Gerard's eyes. They were green and brown all mixed up with little gold flecks inside. And when he looked at them, he could hear Gerard's voice in his head, insistent, but gentle.

_You didn't see a monster, Erik. There was never a monster._

Perhaps, Erik reflected, stomach churning sourly as he replaced the mirror on Gerard's dresser, he hadn't seen a sea monster in the lake that day. But now, knowing the truth of it, he wished it _was_ a sea monster all along.


	3. Anonymous I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another snippet from my canon-divergent AU - this one takes place during the movie's timeline! Christine wakes up in Erik's home after her debut is sabotaged by Carlotta, but things don't pan out the way they do in the film - mainly because the chandelier stays where it's supposed to and Erik's rescue attempt harms no one but himself.

_You mustn't cry,_ Christine chided herself as she felt her eyes burn and throat close against a rush of tears. _You mustn't. If you do, M. Carriere will think you're afraid and he will take you above._

Though middle-aged, M. Carriere was still a large man of evident strength; Christine didn't like her chances against him if he got it in his head that she _must_ be returned to the Opera House. To all those...all those people, those  _awful_ people, who'd mocked her and shouted at her. The thought of facing _that_ again terrified her more than M. Carriere supposed being taken underground had.

How could she tell him - he'd never believe her - that she was _grateful_ to be away from it all, the jeering, the bitter words, and the suspicion and jealousy she garnered everywhere she went. Even her fellow performers looked at her askance, supposing among themselves that the Comte must have put in a strong word for her with M. Cholet to have usurped his wife in the role of Marguerite. Despite her triumph at the Bistro; it was obvious that _connections_ mattered more than _talent_ to the management now.

The women were especially cruel. As much as their snubs and insults stung, a small, rational part of Christine's mind could not fault them for it. How many of them had...been acquainted with the Comte and how many of them were still idling in the chorus, when they'd been promised to be raised to the status of prima donna?

" _Drunk_ ," she heard them whisper, one to the other as her voice cracked and broke and the grand _salle de spectacle_ seemed to dip and spin all about her. How much was to do with nerves, how much was to do with the noxious tonic Mme. Cholet gave her to drink she did not know. _Couldn't cope with it all, could she? I knew it the second I laid eyes on her. What a waste."_

Truthfully, Christine remembered blessedly little of the night before. What she did recall was enough - the fear, the anger, the horror - oh, she knew what had happened almost as soon as she opened her mouth. She'd let herself be tricked, _duped_ by that awful woman. Shame washed over her like a flood when she thought of what a little _fool_ she'd been; every bit as empty-headed and naive as the chorus girls said she was.

Then, abruptly, comfort. Taken away from the bright lights, the hot stage, and the screaming, carried away like a princess in a fairy tale from the maw of a terrible dragon by a knight come to rescue her. Vision blurred with tears and the effects of the drug, she could not see well. But she didn't need to see; she knew who'd come for her - her Maestro.

She knew it was him without looking. Her face pressed against soft wool and a broad shoulder. The smell of woodsmoke, pine rosin, and the damp earthiness she associated with forests and root cellars, the smell she remembered from the night she'd impulsively embraced him after playing the ninny and running off with the Philippe after her performance. It was an embrace her Maestro had not returned; at the time she'd been embarrassed, thinking he refrained from putting his arms around her out of offended propriety or - worst of all - lingering resentment that she'd neglected her promise to him.

Now she knew. Knew that he hadn't known proper affection since he lost his mother as a little, little boy. That his own father would not claim him and spoke of leaving him behind so casually, so...so cruelly, that Christine's heart broke for him over and over. 

Far from a dragon-slaying knight, M. Carriere thought his son...a troll or an ogre. Absconding with the fair maiden, imprisoning her in a dark cave. How could she express that this was the only place she wanted to be?

 _I suppose it makes sense that, denied of all common comfort and companionship, he would hold fast to any that he had,_ Christine thought, fighting back another rush of angry tears. She took a deep breath and shook her head. 

"No, I don't believe that," she said firmly. "I can't leave him without a word, that would be..."

 _Unspeakably cruel._ She bit her tongue to keep from chastising the man who intended to do _exactly_ that to his own son.

"He deserves more than that from me," she concluded. Christine drew herself up and thanked M. Carriere for his concern, but asked him please to go. "I will go when I am ready to go."

He was still looking at her doubtfully, but he rose, cocking his head down at her in a gesture  _so_ reminiscent of her Maestro it was uncanny. How had he ever expected to fool anyone into believing that was not his son.

 _He didn't,_ she thought, suddenly appalled. _Of course, he must have known someone would - anyone would realize. Without even seeing his face, they look so similar..._

Christine's heart beat suddenly faster. Was it only her Maestro's face that led his father to shutting him away from the world? Or was it the circumstances of his birth?

"I'm not afraid," she insisted, hands curling into fists in her lap. "I know his heart."

M. Carriere sighed, his broad fame sagging, face lined with regret. The melancholy twist around the mouth - she'd seen that exact expression before, that night when she so innocently asked her Maestro where he lived. 

_When you sing, I live in heaven. When you don't...down below._

"So do I," he sighed and shook his head. "Unfortunately, there is more to him than that."

Finally - _finally_ \- he left. Christine rose on weak and shaking legs. Shut the door to the little bedroom. Then she sat upon the floor, her back pressed against the door and buried her face in her knees as she wept. 

* * *

 

Christine must have exhausted herself with crying, or else it was a lingering effect of the drug, for she found herself stirring, back and neck sore from her uncomfortable position against the door. She was distraught as she tried to get her bearings, at first having no idea where she was. 

Then she remembered. Mme. Cholet's trick. The disastrous performance. M. Carriere, urging her to come away from...from...

Her Maestro's home. _Erik's_ home. Here under the Opera.

The room she was in looked so like any ordinary bedroom in any ordinary house, but for the fact that the window looked out onto the dark waters of the Opera's famed underground lake. She'd always wanted to see it, when she first heard about it, coming to the Opera as a child, but neither she nor her father had been permitted belowstairs. She wondered if _he_ was here then.

Her heart pitter-pattered as she thought of it. What might have happened had she gone below and found a little boy - or a young man? - wearing a mask, all alone. Would he have run from her? Would she have been frightened?

She didn't like to think so; she was _sure_ she wouldn't have been. Papa always remarked that she was a curious child, too bold by half, feeding stray dogs and feral cats from crumbs in her pockets, not thinking that the might bite or scratch her. 

Christine rose stiffly, smoothing the wrinkles out of the white lace dress she'd found on the end of her bed. It fit well enough, slightly too large through the bust and too small in the waist, but it was clean. When she discovered it upon waking, she was only relieved not to have to wear her costume any longer; it was crumpled in the corner, tucked away so that she did not have to see the reminder of her failure. Where her trusting stupidity had gotten her. 

Though, speaking of trusting...

A mask for anonymity. Because if others heard she was receiving lessons from him - she'd never asked for his name, did not want to reveal the depths of her ignorance and insult him if she admitted she'd never heard of him - they would want them too. She'd believed him. She was so lonely. So eager to trust...

But had he not been trustworthy? Every inch the gentleman, every minute the patient tutor, gently correcting her, hands ghosting over her back and shoulders, chin and throat as he offered guidance without actually touching her. 

The way he'd approached her that first night touched her. He was so soft-spoken, so courteous, apologetic for startling her, almost timid in his urging her to please keep back, maintaining distance, presenting himself as unthreatening a figure as a stranger in a mask could be. She'd not realized how tall he was until the first night she met him in a rehearsal room. He'd been sitting at the piano when she arrived and he rose to greet her. 

 _"You came,"_ he said, with such relief and delight that whatever fears still nibbled at her resolve fell away; he was lonely too, she realized.

And now she knew why. Far from being alarmed or frightened, she felt a calm understanding. No wonder he approached her in such a strange way, that night when she thought herself alone upon the stage. There was no other way he could have spoken to her. No other way to speak to anyone, except through lies and secrets. The way he'd been treated all his life by his father. 

Christine steeled herself; she would have to be careful. If she told her Maestro - she could not, absolutely could _not_ call him Erik until he gave her his name himself - what M. Carriere had told her, doubtless he'd be distraught, upset. Perhaps angry, though she'd seen no glimpse of this legendary temper M. Carriere talked about, not even when she admitted her lie about going off with the Comte. No, she would not approach him with questions about himself. Only thanks, for how kind he'd been to her. 

Yet where _was_ he? Far from M. Carriere's suggestions that her Maestro would be standing guard at the door with bolt and shackles, she hadn't caught sight of him at all since she woke. The last thing she remembered was strong arms cradling her, warm breath near her temple, and the sweetest, loveliest sound she'd ever heard sending her deep into untroubled rest. 

Christine turned the knob on the door of her would-be prison; unlocked. It opened out into a little sitting room; it made her smile involuntarily. The walls were of a side, but each papered or painted over with different colors and textures. The smile vanished when she realized they must have been flats, salvaged from different performances, shored up to provide stability and keep out the chill of the cellars. 

Feeling a bit like Alice traipsing about _Sagolandet_ , she tried another door and found it locked. Another that opened to a small, bare washroom. A fourth, behind which sat a makeshift kitchen. It was then that she heard the music. 

At first she thought she'd only imagined it, a soft vibration she felt in the tops of her ears and fingertips, but she found herself supplying the words in her mind, even before she recognized that she was following the sound of the tune.

 _Hier matin je m'y levai_  
_Laissez-moi planter le mai_  
_Vers le bois je m'en allai_  
_En riant tout en riant_  
_Laissez-mai planter le mai_  
_Moi qui suis gentil galant._  


_Yesterday morning I woke up_  
_Toward the woods I went,_  
_Laughing along the way._  
_Let me know you_  
_For I am a kind and loving lad._

Christine first heard the song that long and lovely summer that she and Papa had worked for the family de Chagny at their seaside home. She'd hardly spoken a word of French then; much of her knowledge of the language came through music. 

She was back in the sitting room; the music was coming from the locked room. Christine pressed her ear against the door; a flute. Her Maestro was returned. She raised a hand to knock, but stopped herself, overcome with nerves. What could she say, when there was so much she _mustn't_ say?

Feeling a bit wicked she dropped to her knees silently beside the door and peered through the keyhole. She could only make out her Maestro's back, the white of his shirt, his dark trousers. The music was clearer with her ear at level with the keyhole and she only listened for a minute, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Best that she come to him, best that she have time to compose herself. She could hardly imagine how she would have reacted, what she would have done if he'd tapped on the door of the bedroom he'd placed her in after her conversation with his - with M. Carriere. And how much _worse_ if he'd come upon them while they were conversing.

Drawing herself up, Christine gave her ill-fitting dress a final adjustment, then pushed her hair behind her shoulders, belatedly wishing she'd thought to pin it up before venturing outside the bedroom. Then she knocked. 

"Maestro?"

Silence from the other side. Then movement, a bit of shuffling. Clothes being donned in haste. A mask, she imagined, being tight tightly round a head.

His sudden nearness after he opened the door made her take an involuntary step back; what a pair they made, neither looking presentable for the world above. Christine's hair was tumbling around her shoulders, her Maestro had neglected his jacket and necktie; she saw his Adam's apple bob nervously as he looked down at her, one hand braced against the door, the other frozen on the back of his head, as though reassuring himself that the mask was in place. 

_I fashioned him a mask. It was easier. At least for me._

Christine managed a smile; her Maestro stared dumbly down at her before clearing his throat and bidding her a very subdued good-morning.

"Good-morning," she returned, then glanced at the clock over the makeshift mantle. It showed ten o'clock. Did it give the correct time? Or was it only another prop?

Her Maestro's eyes followed her gaze and then roved around the room, taking in the patchwork walls, the multiple rugs thrown over the stone floors to keep in as much warmth as possible. Christine looked back up at him and saw his jaw tighten, his eyes narrow. Was he embarrassed? Ashamed?

 _Oh, no,_ she thought, heart aching with compassion. After all he'd done for her - when no one else in the world cared a jot for her - no, he could not be ashamed. 

But before she could reassure him, before she could say anything, he spoke first.

"You must be wondering..." he began, then trailed off, the hand that had been clutching the strings of the mask dropping to his side limply. "I'm afraid I owe you an explanation. An apology. I - "

And just as she'd done the night of the Bistro, she flung herself forward, throwing her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. Tears prickled at her eyes (she'd thought she must have run out of tears, but she was wrong) and soaked his waistcoat as, this time, her Maestro gently rested his hands on her shoulders. She tensed, thinking he meant to push her away, but he did not move after that, only stood still as she wrung out the remainder of her tears. 

When at last she took a shuddering breath and pulled away from him, he let her go at once and immediately produced a handkerchief upon which she could dry her eyes and blow her nose. 

"You are still overwrought," he observed correctly. With a hand at her lower back - hovering again, not touching - he guided her into the sitting room, closing the door of the locked room behind him. "Tea, I think. Just...wait...wait here, if you please."

Christine sat down upon the chaise, which along with an armchair were the only two pieces of furniture in the room. She folded the handkerchief into smaller and smaller squares, fidgeting, then rising, unable to be still. She did nothing more than walk the perimeter of the room - it was lined with bookshelves. All kinds of books, a volume of which would put a bookseller to shame. Novels, poems, plays, of course librettos and reams and reams of sheet music, every performance the Opera had ever put on, from the looks of it. Some printed. Others painstakingly hand-copied. 

The rattle of a tea tray made Christine take up her seat again, stiffly and guiltily; she already knew much more about her Maestro than he'd willingly told her. Surely it must be wrong to go poking about his...his home without his say-so. 

 _A bachelor's lodgings,_  she thought as she noted the wooden try, the mis-matched cup and saucer, the teapot with a handle that had been obviously repaired. The appearance of the single cup made her insides twist uncomfortably; how much company had he expected to entertain in his life? Did he own more than one cup? One plate? One bowl? A single set of silverware. 

He was more lonely than she'd ever realized, ever suspected. To be sure, she'd imagined what her Maestro must do when he was not with her. Shame filled her again when she recalled her early imaginings that under the mask was a handsome face, revealed to the world under the lights of fashionable restaurants and ballrooms. She wondered whether she'd ever see him, if his work would be performed in concert, or if he wrote for the Opera. Whether she'd recognize him, whether he'd speak to her, or else merely share a secret smile, meant only for her. 

There were no concert halls. No balls. Not even a comely wife or adoring children to sit at his feet in the evenings as he played his latest compositions for them, watching their rosy little faces light up as hers had done when Papa played for her. Her imaginings had never been fanciful, or even very grand; now they felt overblown and foolish. 

"You'll have to do without milk or sugar, I'm afraid," he apologized as he poured her a cup. "Or even lemon. My pantry is...rather bare, just at present."

"That's...thank you," Christine said as she accepted the cup and saucer. The china made a jarring clinking sound as her hands shook. Despite the mask she could see the change in her Maestro's expression. He was deeply dismayed. He set the tray down and stood by her, not having sat himself. 

"Christine - " he began, but she set the cup down and stood up herself, hand out to stay his inevitable apology.

"Please," she began, and his large hands rose, palms up, as if she was going to strike him. " _Please_ , let me...thank you. Truly thank you. For...everything. And...I'm sorry, I'm so  _sorry_ , Maestro, I...I failed you and - "

"No!" he exclaimed, voice suddenly loud and venomous in a way she'd never heard before. It startled her and she looked up at him with wide eyes as he lowered his hands to his side. "No, do not...do _not_ apologize for that. It wasn't your fault, of that I am sure. I am only sorry that you were subject to...unforgivable ill-treatment. By...everyone. And I could do nothing to stop it."

His eyes - beautiful, she'd always noticed how beautiful they were, hazel-green with flecks of gold - darkened and he shook his head against remembered pain. 

"But you did," she said, reaching out to take his right hand - cold, she could feel, without his gloves, but she held tight away. "You...you took me away from them. And I want to thank you. I didn't - I couldn't do anything myself and...I had nowhere else to go."

Of course, he knew that. Knew she was living in the costume shop, in a sort of nest she'd made on an ironing table. Like a little homeless mouse. How fitting, she thought as they stood in his makeshift home, holding his cold hand, that the two of them should live in their separate unconventional manners. She above in a quiet corner of the costume shop. He below, in the sprawling catacombs. Not _right_ , perhaps. But fitting.

Christine released his hands and resumed her seat, patting the cushion beside her invitingly. Her Maestro hesitated, then sat down stiffly beside her. She sipped her tea and studied him out of the corner of her eyes. He seemed much younger here, like this, disheveled and distinctly nervous. Little thought had she given to his age before, impossible to guess under his mask and evening clothes. 

 _Take care with the neck and hands,_ Mme. Cholet ordered her dressers, casting a critical eye upon herself in the mirror. _They are the first places to show age._

Mme. Cholet's own neck was like crepe, but the flesh on her Maestro's neck was smooth, leading up to his unblemished jaw. His hands upon his knees were similarly smooth, though when she held them, she felt callouses under her fingers. He'd worked in his life, but what of that? So had she. And now, sitting so close to him, seeing so much more of him, she began to suspect that they were closer in age than she'd thought previously.

It was the side-whiskers, she concluded. She rarely saw young men sporting such a style any longer. 

Her staring must have become uncomfortable for her Maestro. His hands clenched his knees tighter and he looked away, self-consciously turning his masked face from her.

"You know, of course," he said steadily and softly. "That I am a liar, do you not?"

 _We both are, then,_ Christine thought, a little bitterly. _You pretended to be a famous composer, I pretended to be a great opera singer. But lying is different than pretending, isn't it? We weren't trying to hurt anyone, were we?_

Christine put her empty tea-cup down and faced him, though she could only see the line of his jaw, curve of his ear, and the waves of his red hair pressed flat by the strings of the mask.

"I know that you...that you live down here," she said truthfully. Then added, with a question in her voice. "Below the Opera."

Her Maestro nodded and would not look at her. "For having misled you...I am sorry. Believe me when I say that if there was any other way I could have spoken to you - if I could have told you the truth...but how could I? If I had...you would not have come for that first lesson. Would you?"

"I might have," Christine answered, thinking again of the little girl who held her hand out for growling strays to sniff and coaxed cats out from piles of timber where they'd hidden from the rain. "I was...I live here too, you know. In the costume shop. I might have come. If you'd told me where you lived, who you...Maestro, won't you look at me?"

He did not.

"If I told you who I am?" he supplied for her. A hand came up and touched the brow of the mask before he withdrew it from his face with a suddenness that verged on violence. "I am...I am _nothing_ , Christine. No one. A...a creature playing at being a man. I am _so_ sorry for all the trouble I've caused you."

"Don't say that!" she declared, vehemently. He turned round and looked at her then, tears brimming in his lovely eyes. "Don't say that! You aren't to blame for what happened! That...that evil woman upstairs, it was all her doing. And mine, for believing her! You...you've only ever helped me."

"And what a fine lot of help I've given you," he replied, voice laced with bitterness. Christine did not feel exactly like she was looking at a new man, but only a different side of the man she was used to. One that wasn't all patience and painstaking decorum. Someone, ironically, a little more human than the human guise he thought he'd had to invent for himself. To make himself palatable to her sensibilities. 

"How did you take me away?" Christine asked, trying to light on the good he'd done last night - coming to the rescue, though she'd let him down so badly. "How...I only remember the audience being upset. Shouting. Then everyone else, all around...it's all a blur."

Despite her imploring him to look at her, her Maestro stood and walked to the other side of the room, to the mantle where he placed his hands upon the carved wood, bracing himself.

"I gave them something else to look at," he spoke not to her, but to the wall. "Something else to be horrified by."

Christine stood up, meaning to go to him, but he held up a hand to stay her.

"I did something I told myself and my - something I swore I'd never do," he continued, tightly, his voice heavy with suppressed feeling. "But...what else was there to be done? I needed a distraction. Believe me, I thought...I thought only of you."

She did not understand. What had he done? What could possibly have distracted - or horrified - the audience more than the lead soprano falling to pieces on the stage? More even than the recent spate of disastrous performances at which Mme. Cholet had been the victim of a few mean-spirited (but well-deserved) pranks. People had begun referring to the fabled Garnier as the Opera Buffa of Paris; Christine's debut was one in a long line of professional embarrassments over the last few months.

"I showed the audience my face," he said, knuckles white where he held the mantle. "And the cast. Everything else... rather paled, in comparison to that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be more, but I wanted to stop there before it got too long - they have a picnic to attend!


	4. Anonymous II

_I showed them my face._

_His face...as beautiful as she was, that's how monstrous Erik looked._

Despite what she had been told, Christine's first instinct was to declare,  _It can't possibly be as bad as all that!_ But Erik did not give her time to reply. Instead he spoke on, words coming faster, more agitated.

"It is natural to wonder first, why does your...your _Maestro_ ," he spat the word like it was a curse, "live belowground? Because he cannot live above it, is the logical answer, but begs the question _why_? And why does he wear a mask? The logical conclusion being that if he lives like a monster in a hole, it must be because he _is_ a monster.

"And Christine," he continued, turning to face her, but keeping his distance, "if there is one thing...one thing I would make amends for, if only I could, one thing I _must_ apologize to you for...it is that."

But she would not hear him. She shook her head and fisted her hands against her stomach as though he'd kicked her there. "No, no,  _stop_ , please, don't - don't say things about yourself. Your - "

_Your mother saw your face and smiled, didn't she? If the first person who ever saw you thought you were flawlessly beautiful, then..._

She stopped before she gave herself away. Clamped her teeth firmly over her tongue, that little jolt of pain the reminder she needed. She slowly raised her eyes to his and shook her head again.

"You are not - you could never be. A _monster_. No," she denied. "A monster would not show such kindness as you have to me. A monster would not..."

She thought of Mme. Cholet, her ego, her deceitfulness, her cruelty. And M. Cholet's disregard for others, his pomposity, his treating the opera like a dollhouse and those who worked there as toys to be used and discarded at will. M. Carriere, hiding away his secret shame, a defenseless child who did not _ask_ to be born, so that his own career and life not be hindered. Even Philippe, she recalled with a pang. Though he had treated her sweetly, in tribute to their childhood friendship, every time she thought of him she remembered those acid-tongued, suspicious-eyed chorus girls who disliked her so. Had he been sweet to them, once upon a time, as he was sweet to her now? Did his affection wax and wane like the moonlight, cold and beautiful?

"A monster does not know - a monster would never say that it was a monster," she declared resolutely. "Wicked people are nearly always the most...self-righteous, the most sure of themselves. It's...it's how they can bring themselves to do terrible things. They don't weigh the good or bad of anything for it never occurs to them that they could _be_ bad."

Her Maestro smiled down at her, wryly sad. "So, by your faultless logic - because I know what it is to be monstrous, I cannot be a monster myself."

Christine nodded. "Yes - well. Only if you know what it is to be monstrous, but you do not _want_ to be a monster."

Her Maestro closed his eyes and shook his head with a sigh. "Oh, Christine. If only the choice was mine to make."

There was nothing else she could say, she realized. So thoroughly convinced he was of his own inadequacy. Again she felt a flare of anger against M. Carriere - the very person who ought to have bolstered him, encouraged him, _loved_ him, who instead shut him away from the light, all to preserve his own reputation. 

_Erik cannot be helped by anyone._

Christine stood a little straighter as she thought of those words.  _I'll help him_ , she vowed silently.  _He has given me so much, can't I give him a little understanding? A little compassion? Doesn't he deserve at least that?_

Besides, she still did not want to return to the world above. Not yet. Not when she did not know what awaited her - oh, scorn and ridicule, definitely, but she had more practical concerns. After vanishing from her debut, would she be returned to the costume shop? Or turned out on her ear?

If it was the latter, she was doomed, for she truly had nowhere else to go. The one friend she could claim in Paris had already done what he could for her; Philippe's influence could not stretch far enough to give her a second chance, not when Mme. Cholet already held her in such contempt, and now with just cause. She could not rely upon his charity; she was not so foolish as that.

At least, she mused morbidly, if all of M. Carriere's predictions were correct and her Maestro intended to hold her as a captive, she would have a warm bed to sleep in. 

"You said your pantry was...undersupplied," she spoke into the silence that followed her Maestro's dire pronouncement. "Do you have anything at all to eat?"

He straightened up; giving him a task to do sapped some of the melancholy air that hung about him like a shroud and gave him a bit of energy. "Nothing too tempting - but of course, you must eat. I have a little something - sausage, bread, cheese. No eggs, I'm afraid, if you were hoping for an omelette."

This little attempt at humor lightened her heart. He was trying _so_ hard for her - seeing how he lived, where he lived, she wondered how much of a strain his performance had been - and whether, the veil being lifted, she might finally come to know this mysterious 'Erik,' who so frightened M. Carriere.

"That's alright, bread and cheese will suit me fine," Christine reassured him. Then added, having seen no dining table in her earlier explorations, "We can set a blanket on the floor and have a picnic, if you'd like!"

The last she uttered with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm than felt genuine. She had reasons for the suggestion however; on those days when her father's pocketbook was empty and they were forced to bed down with the stars as their roof and the earth as their floor, he tried to make it pleasant for her by turning their meager meals into picnics. Papa had a talent for vivid imagining; crusts of bread became petit-fours with pastel-covered fondant, butter that was  _just_ this side of rancid was sweet cream, wild berries with large hard pips became juicy strawberries, and cold spring water was thick, hot chocolate. Sometimes Christine could swear warmth emanated from the chipped mugs they took with them as they traveled, though that might have only been due to the pressure of her hands on the clay, willing his pretty words to be true. 

Luckily, her Maestro seemed to find her childishness endearing. He chuckled and nodded, losing just a touch of the rigid tension in his shoulders that had plagued him since he opened the door to her. "If you'd like, Christine. If you'd like. Come."

He beckoned her toward the kitchen, holding the door for her. She squeezed past him through the narrow entrance, her shoulder brushing against him. He puttered around the tight space, removing the bread, cheese, and hard sausage, along with a knife (he did own more than one piece of silverware and flatware, but not enough to make a full set). Christine was conscious of the fact that they were closer together than they ever had been - except for when she initiated contact.

Three times that she recalled, not counting their flight below the night previous. Once, the touch on his shoulder that startled him so much he froze like a statue under her hand. Then the embrace after the Bistro; he'd looked so miserable as he silently accepted her lie as truth - more than that, so  _resigned._ As soon as the words left her mouth she regretted them, but what tore at her the most was her immediate knowledge that he  _knew_ she was lying. That he  _knew_ and rather than coldly dismiss her, or summon up anger at her for both neglecting him  _and_ attempting to deceive him over it, that he was willing to pretend. To let her get away with it, rather than provoke a quarrel. There was something profoundly sad in that, and it was the sadness she felt for him that propelled her forward. 

Philippe might have kissed her that night, left her light-headed and giddy, but what a trifle it seemed compared to how deeply she'd felt her Maestro's hurt - how sorry she was to be the cause of it.

And today. When she had no words to tell him how sorry  _she_ was, even as he tried to apologize. How sorry she was to have let him down and how grateful she was that he forgave her and helped her anyway. Let her into his home. A place he'd never intended for her to see. A place, she realized, taking in the acetic kitchen, the few plates, cups, and spoons, that he'd never intended to share with anyone. 

He hesitated in taking out two glasses, and glanced down at her, the shame of the morning creeping back into his eyes.

"I go above to use the Opera's supply of fresh water," he admitted. "There was enough in the kettle for tea, but I'm afraid I have nothing more to offer you and now is...an inopportune time to go above. Wine? Or..."

"Wine," Christine nodded. Then smiled and added, "So it'll be just like a real picnic in the Bois de Boulogne."

Her Maestro smiled stiffly and her own smile faded; had she offended him? Or was he simply nervous? Not knowing how to proceed and what to say, since he'd been one person to her - a person he considered wholly an invention - and now was revealed to be another. 

She did notice he did not speak nearly as much now as he was wont to during their lessons. It always made her laugh to hear her Maestro turn as gossipy as one of the ballet rats on occasion. Christine supposed he  _must_ have been well-known and connected about the opera; he knew everyone it seemed, or at least knew of everyone. Which of the dancers had new beaus, which of the chorus girls was likely to be soon married, which of the tenors was courting two different ladies who just discovered one another's existence. He was a gifted storyteller, her Maestro, excepting stories about himself. Whenever she'd asked him anything pertaining to himself, he made a joke, or changed the subject. 

And now, it seemed, he was determined to adopt an attitude of silence as he retrieved a bottle of red wine. Was that...property of the Opera as well? _Stolen_ , her mind supplied, but Christine banished the thought. M. Carriere had admitted that her Maestro had been a silent partner to him for ten years. Was he not due payment? A salary?

He bade her remain behind for a minute and returned with a crocheted afghan over one arm. 

"A picnic blanket?" he offered shyly and Christine grinned at him and nodded, though she bubbled up with questions. The blanket appeared hand-made, but by whom? His mother? Kept and carefully preserved since her passing...fifteen years ago? Twenty years ago? Thirty? So much she did not know, but she knew to proceed carefully.

As Christine laid out the blanket and meal, her Maestro knelt by the hearth, building up a fire. Soon the strange little room was warm and cozy and Christine decided she liked it very much; things did not seem so gloomy or odd with a cheerfully crackling fire that dispelled the chill in the air and chased away the uncanny silence of the cellars, silence that was broken only by the occasional movement of the water in the underground lake.

"Maestro?" she asked when he'd sat himself on the farthest corner of the blanket as he could get from her. 

"You don't have to call me that, Christine," he told her, but did not give her anything _else_ to call him. "But...what were you going to ask?"

"Could I...we did come across the lake last night, didn't we?" she recalled, from her blurred and incomplete memories of the night before. "Might we - could I look at it? I've always wanted to see the famous underground lake of the Paris Opera, but I haven't been brave enough to look at it myself. And Jean-Claude told me not to go below alone."

"Jean-Claude was right to do so," her Maestro nodded. He gestured for her to get on with eating, but he took nothing for himself. "It's easy to get lost down here, and some of the stonework is already crumbling away, despite the fact that the Garnier isn't old. The foundation sustained damage in the shelling, during the Commune, but the worst of it is in portions of the building not used by anyone. Well, portions that aren't _meant_ to be used by anyone."

Excepting himself, she realized and wondered just how long he had been down here. Her Maestro had rolled up his sleeves in the kitchen and she saw the faint traces of freckles on his forearms - so his skin had seen sun, then, he did not entirely live the life of a mole. But her look was short-lived. He sensed her eyes upon him and rolled his sleeves back down, hiding his arms. Pale, still very strong. 

"But I'll take you to see the lake," he continued. "If you'd like, though you may be disappointed. It's just a cistern, really. Gerard always called it an over-praised pail under the Opera, catching rainwater."

He'd given some of himself away! And did not seem to realize he'd done so, for he poured her a glass of wine without further comment or explanation.

Christine smiled, but noticed that though he poured himself a glass as well, he did not raise it to his lips and instead let it sit upon the carpet.

"Maes - aren't you hungry?" she asked, nodding at the food between them, thus far picked at only by her.

"Not just at present, thank you," he said quickly, politely, as always. Again, he urged her to continue. "But you go right ahead. Have the lot, if you'd like. I'll fend for myself later."

 _Sneak into the kitchens after the Opera is shuttered for the night and 'borrow' from them_ , she supposed, but there was no malice in her supposition, or judgement, only embarrassed gratitude that he _still_ gave her everything he had. Even after revealing that he had next to nothing.

"Well," Christine said, daubing at her mouth with a napkin and setting her wine aside. She stood and held her hands out to him. "Might we go now? I'm not so very hungry and I would like to...explore a bit, if that's alright."

"Whatever you wish, Christine," he said, looking at her hands, but rising under his own power. "Anything you wish."

 _I wish to know you_ , she thought, desperate. _To know you as you are and not as you pretended to be. Why won't you speak to me?_

Yet her silent question went unanswered, as most silent questions did. He led the way back into the room she'd awakened in, picked up a lantern to provide illumination outside his house, and led her down a little fight of wooden stairs into the chill of the cellars. Christine shivered and he told her once again to wait; that he was sorry he'd not already made provisions for her in the cold and left her with the lantern.

 _Don't be sorry! Just...be yourself_ , she wanted to call after him, but did not. Only wrapped her arms around herself and awaited his return.

He returned quickly, holding his own heavy black cloak over his shoulders

"Oh, no, I couldn't," she stepped away from him, eyeing the fine black wool dubiously. "I'll get it dirty from the floor."

"I can launder it," he said, holding it out to her. 

Here, Christine saw an opportunity. She smiled, thanked him, told him it was very kind to offer - then turned her back on him and waited. 

He hesitated, then he approached her and gently settled the heavy cloak around her shoulders. A longer hesitation, then he gently swept her loose hair out from under the collar and let it fall down around her shoulders and back. His cold fingers brushed the back of her neck and she held in a tremor. As Christine predicted, the cloak pooled around her feet and dragged on the dirty stone floor. She turned around and saw his mouth twitch in a valiant attempt to restrain a smile.

"Do I look very silly?" she asked, twirling, watching little specks of dust and grit fly off the hem of the cloak. This time he truly did smile and she was glad to see it.

"You are the very picture of dignity," he said rather unconvincingly. Then he held out his hand to her, a hand she took immediately as he led her to the lake.  

It was gloomy and strange, the water seeming to be black at first, then a putrid green-yellow in the lantern light. 

"Have you ever seen a sea monster?" she asked, trying to be lighthearted - then remembered M. Carriere's awful story. Oh, God, she could have kicked herself - or wished the brackish water to swoop over her in a tidal wave and carry her and her mortification away with it. 

Luckily, her Maestro rallied gamely. He sucked his a breath, then let out a shaky chuckle.

"Once," he admitted. "But...he turned out not to be so fearsome. Only a little fellow who wouldn't harm a fly."

There was a rowboat tied to makeshift dock and he nodded toward it, "There was a time I managed to get about standing up, without any clambering in and out, but those days are long behind me."

Christine took in the low ceiling, her Maestro's height and breadth of shoulders and once _again_ wondered just how long he'd been down here.

"How old are you?" she asked, not looking at him, but at the water. The lantern he held cast shadows that stretched and gyrated on the walls and water. Eerie, but not unpleasantly so. It created a feeling in herself not dissimilar to the one listening to ghost stories by a warm fire did. Bit of a thrill, but still comforted knowing nothing terrible was going to happen. 

He audibly swallowed. Then, in as quiet and subdued a voice as she'd ever heard said, "I'm not sure."

Christine spun around and looked up at him incredulously. "Really? Your - no one ever told you when it was you were born?"

He took a half-step away from her, shrugging his broad shoulders. "It was not considered cause for...unadulterated celebration. I think...I have a sense, mind you, just not...a date in particular. _La Juive_ was the inaugural performance...he took _her_ to see that, so..."

His voice had gone quiet, considering, Christine could barely hear him as he recounted performance dates to calculate his own age. Finally he looked at her and gave an answer.

"Twenty...five? Or twenty-six, something like that."

"I'm nineteen," she informed him, though as he nodded she realized - of course, he already knew.

"You told me," he reminded her. "Or rather - you told your Maestro."

No wonder he was so taciturn with her now - she was speaking to him like he was a stranger, though she didn't mean to! She was only so worried about saying the wrong thing, _doing_ the wrong thing. The thought that she'd hurt her Maestro before, when she imagined him to be a worldly man, beloved and renowned was bad enough. Now that she knew he was truly all alone in the world - even more alone in some ways than she herself...it seemed _so_ important not to hurt him. Important and impossible.

"What is your true name?" she asked, wanting him to tell her. 

Again he paused. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and Christine suffered a pang at the thought - there was no way, it couldn't be - that M. Carriere had left him in ignorance of _that_ as well. 

"The name I've been known by most frequently," he said carefully, "is Erik."

What a strange answer! But it was an answer and so Christine smiled up at him brilliantly. Gripping his cloak around her with her left hand, she poked her right out from between the black folds and extended the limb toward him.

"I'm very happy to meet you, Erik," she said, a little worried he would not take her hand, but determined to keep it there until he did. "At last."

He did take it. Slowly, hesitantly, as he did  _everything_ , just as he had been that first night she'd seen him. But he took it. Rather, his hand swallowed hers up, but he squeezed her slender fingers gently. "Thank you, Christine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More? Sad unmasking? I just wanted them to talk and not get distracted by stuffed deer and nosy comtes.


	5. Angels and Devils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically a continuation of Anonymous I and II, but from Erik's perspective.

It was too much. She was too much, too close, here in the dark, asking questions to which there were no answers, none that could possibly satisfy her. After he showed her the Lake and saw her back into the house, he excused himself, just for a minute. He needed to collect his thoughts.

Erik hadn't quite appreciated the concept of the proverbial devil and angel on his shoulders until he mindlessly absconded with Christine off the stage. Two voices warred within him since brought her below, though for the life of him, he couldn't work out which was the devil and which the angel.

_Take her back. Before she wakes. Put her in her little mouse hole in the costume shop and let everyone think the Phantom took her. That the Phantom was responsible for the whole sordid affair. Then she might have a chance..._

But such an effort would have been pointless. The 'Phantom' was revealed to be a creature of flesh and blood - not a man, perhaps, not _quite_ , but a living being nevertheless. Anyway, what chance did she have when La Carlotta seemed hell-bent on destroying the Opera, the very foundation of his life? It was astonishing to think that a person could be so vain that she could not suffer to give up her place upon the stage to those more talented that she. Astonishing that her husband would let her run the whole of his business into the ground for the sake of her pride, and that he was too sycophantic and weak-willed to stop her. 

 _There's nothing for her up there. There might have been, had Gerard kept his place. Of course, if he had, you would never have known her. You would never have had the gall to approach her, knowing that_ he _would know, that he would never approve..._

But Gerard was displaced and so Erik made bold to speak to this girl who had such a gift, a blessing from God Himself, that was being wasted among the dusty costume racks. It was more than a crime to let her languish so; it was a _sin_.

 _Ah!_ the voice of his good sense (his good sense always sounded like Gerard, his conscience always sounded like _her_ ) piped up. _But what's the greater sin, then? Letting that voice go unheard or building her up the way you did, only for it all to end so dismally?_

Christine had apologized and wept so heartily, but the fault was as much his as it was hers; they'd both been naive. How could he cast any blame at her feet when he too allowed himself to believe that Mme Cholet was anything other than the very devil?

Once they heard her at the Bistro, he thought at the time, then they'd understand. They'd have to. When someone heard a voice like that, how could they do anything other than wish to share it with the world? When the Virgin Mother appeared, did those who experienced the visitation not tell everyone and anyone they could, so that proper homage might be done? How could anyone close their ears when an angel sang?

God, what a fool he'd been. Mme Cholet heard and wanted only to humiliate her. The Comte de Chagny heard and wanted only to possess her. They didn't deserve her. The world didn't deserve her. They showed such ugliness to her; wasn't it only right that their own ugliness be reflected back on them?

Gerard's voice sounded in his head again - not the faint chiding of his common sense, but Gerard's real words, spoken...what, hours before? They'd never had a quarrel before; Erik had always been too afraid that Gerard would abandon him for good if he angered him too much, pushed back against his wishes too hard. Never had he imagined that one day he would order the man away from his underground prison himself. 

_What the hell were you thinking? You've gone too far - much too far! I can't protect you anymore, Erik!_

A knock at the door startled Erik from his thoughts. God, Christine! How long had it been, since he'd hidden himself away like a coward? There was something else she might as well know about him: when push came to shove, he _always_ hid away.

_I can't protect you anymore._

What would he do now that hiding was no longer an option?

Erik opened the door, an apology on the tip of his tongue for keeping her waiting; he had to bite back a jibe that he was unused to entertaining, she being only his _second_ ever houseguest. There was no reason to expose her to his temper, when it wasn't her he was angry with. But Christine looked past him with wide eyes and exclaimed, "Oh! Is this...your bedroom?"

Yes, in that there was a pallet in the room that he slept on, it was in fact his bedroom. But the bed was in a neglected little corner. The room itself was more of a workshop, dominated by instruments, some in varying states of repair. His collection had been acquired at first by Gerard, bringing home damaged instruments for him to tinker with when he was young, and he continued the practice himself, sifting through the Opera's bins looking for discarded pieces that still had some life in them yet. 

Not sure what to say, ('Ah, yes, Christine, I'm a bit of a chiffonier,' was right out), he just nodded and stood aside as she took it upon herself to poke around a bit. Erik bit back a smile, remembering that night he watched her from backstage, before he made bold to approach her. She had a habit of staring off dreamily, her work falling aside in neglect as she wandered about the half-constructed sets, picking up properties, trying on tin tiaras and paste jewels. Even if she couldn't sing a note, he fancied he would have liked to know her still. A kindred spirit, as it were. Living within dreams. 

But as Gerard pointed out, she wasn't _like_ him, not really. Those words stung more than being upbraided for his impulsive decision to show his face and take her below. She belonged to the world, Gerard insisted. In the light, living life among people. She deserved to be part of the human race. And he did not.

Christine's small slender fingers ran down the strings of his harp, producing a few ringing notes that lingered in the air. She smiled and looked up at him with bright blue eyes.

 _She's not a human being, Gerard,_ Erik thought to himself, breath catching as it always did when he was on the receiving end of _such_ a smile. _She is an angel. And anyway, she hasn't asked to leave. Yet._

There was something in her expression that touched him deeply; Erik did not remember his mother's face in vivid detail, but he could remember her expression - at least, how he felt when she looked at him. There was something innocent and joyful about her face, pure in quality, not childish. Gerard said many times over the years that she was beautiful. Erik didn't doubt it, but he didn't remember and more to the point, it didn't matter. It only mattered that she smiled at him often and that every time she did, he felt such...love. A warm comfortable feeling in his chest, quiet and secure. 

Erik had loved very few people in his life, but just because he was unpracticed in the art did not mean he couldn't recognize the feeling. He remembered exactly when he felt it for Christine, before he'd spoken a word to her; and no, it hadn't been when he first heard her voice.

He recalled the setting quite vividly; the night he first approached her, she had been collecting cast-off garments from the performers. One of the ensemble had turned to say good-night. Christine replied, then realized the parting words were not intended for her. But she hadn't gone red or watery-eyed in humiliation. She smiled to herself, then shrugged her shoulders, seemingly as content after the gaffe as she was before. That was when he first loved her and he knew it as surely as he knew anything.

He loved her now as he watched her from his doorway, suddenly feeling like an intruder in his own quarters. Erik knew a prolonged silence had descended, that he should break it - but he could only think of one thing to say to her and the words would either frighten or embarrass her, so he kept them to himself. He merely watched, as she lifted a few pieces of composition paper off his desk - then immediately replaced them, when she realized they were his own work. She met his eyes again and smiled, shyly this time.  

"I'm sorry, I'm a bit of a fidget," Christine apologized, lacing her fingers together before her. 

"That's...perfectly alright," he spoke at last. Then, added, hopefully, "Would you like to hear it? I warn you, it's incomplete."

Christine's eyes were bright again as she nodded eagerly and said she would be happy to.  

"You play the violin?" she asked, as he took the instrument in hand and led her back out into the space that functioned as the parlor. Although there was a perfectly serviceable chair, Christine sat back down upon the blanket before the embers in the hearth; he set the violin aside and coaxed life back into the fire.

"Yes," he replied simply. "I know you said your father was a master, please forgive me if I fail to live up to him."

"Oh, no," she shook her head. "Not a maestro. But he loved it. And I loved to hear it."

"He brought you happiness," Erik said, taking up his violin, taking a few seconds to put it in tune. "That makes him a maestro, even if he never played in a concert hall."

"He never played under a _roof_ \- " Christine began, but stopped speaking at once as he began to play. The melody was a new one; inspired by her, though she needn't know it. When Gerard listened to his music he often bade him stop and play something less gloomy. He might have been satisfied with this. The tune he'd written for Christine evoked visions of sunlight creeping into dark places. A sweet smile bringing joy to a hard heart. 

There was a tricky phrase he'd not worked out, a transition that never came to pass and he thought, as he played for her that he might finish it yet - but he stopped playing abruptly when he realized she her face was crumpled, seemingly, with the effort of holding back tears. 

Without thinking Erik fell to his knees, laying the violin aside, hands hovering, not sure what to do in the face of her sudden upset, how to bring comfort.

"I'm so sorry," he said, but she shook her head and took his hands.

"No, please!" she said, wrapping her warm little fingers around his larger, colder ones. "It's not...it isn't...it was _beautiful_. It isn't fair."

Erik's heart stuttered and his lax hold upon her hands tightened slightly.

"What isn't?" he asked, though he fancied he knew what she was referring to. His most petulant, darkest, most selfish thoughts come out through someone else's mouth; though on Christine's lips, they seemed less obscene than they did when he voiced them in his mind.

"You - this - _this!_ " Christine exclaimed, releasing his hands and gesturing around her. The redness in her eyes came less from sorrow, he now realized, than from anger. "Why do you live down here? _Why?_ Your music is so beautiful! Your talent is...it's like nothing I've ever...none of _them_ up there...it isn't _fair!_ "

The venom in her voice shook him to the core. Christine had never spoken to him in such a way, not about her promised voice lessons turning out to be a lie, not about the regular snubs and rebukes she suffered among the company. It made him...well, Erik couldn't put a name to the feeling, but it made him uncomfortable.

He edged away from her; this was a dangerous road. He'd traveled it once before in his life. Sought to rise above his circumstances. It hadn't worked then and it certainly wasn't going to work now. "It is, Christine it's precisely...it's what must be. All I can expect - what I deserve -"

"No, no, stop!" she exclaimed, suddenly livid. Perhaps he'd overestimated the harm of showing her a glimpse of his temper; hers was quite passionate. "I won't hear you say such things about yourself when they aren't true! No one _deserves_ to live like this! It doesn't matter what you look like!"

If she meant to bolster him, her efforts were in vain. It was as though Erik had been forcibly pitched from a sunny knoll into a lake of frigid water. Gerard's earlier admonishments came back full force, ringing out in the auditorium in his mind. _She isn't meant for this. She doesn't belong down here._

_You do._

Erik stood up, placing distance between them, turning away. His hands were fisted at his sides and when he spoke, it was to the wall, harsh and tense. Every fiber of his being, voice in his head, the angel and the devil both pleaded with him to speak gently to her. It wasn't her fault, after all, imagining things that could never be. She wasn't like him. She didn't even _know_ him.

"You don't understand," he said without looking at her. "You don't have any idea what you're talking about. I should - I should take you above. It'll be past dark now. We won't be seen. And you can tell them you got away from me - from the _Phantom_ \- last night, that you were lost in the tunnels and only just - "

"No!" Christine insisted again, her voice very close behind him; he couldn't retreat any further. There wasn't anywhere else to go. "I don't want to go back. Or if I do, I want you to come _with_ me."

_She doesn't know. She doesn't understand. She can't. Gerard was right. It was a mistake to bring her down here._

"Please, Erik, don't mind what he said - what...what..."

He? 

Slowly, Erik turned around. Puzzle pieces shifted in his mind. _It doesn't matter what you look like. Don't mind what_ he _said._

Of course. Gerard had always loved telling him fairy tales. Naturally, the heroic knight did not abandon the fair maiden to the monster's lair. And if he couldn't reason with the monster, he'd reason with the maid.

Erik could imagine it well enough, what Gerard might have said about him to make her leave.  _He lied to you. He's a hideous, unwanted burden. A penniless bastard eking out a pitiful existence in a hole in the earth. I let him have a go at making a few minor choices here and there. Playing with the Opera like a doll's house. Only the game's over now and there's nothing for him to do. Nowhere for him to go. Leave him. Leave him alone, in the dark. It's easy. I've done it over and over again for twenty-five - or twenty-six - years._

"What else did _he_ tell you?" Erik asked, advancing toward her. Christine took half a step back, but tripped upon the hem of a gown that was too long for her and fell back upon the blanket. Her Maestro would have been at her side at once, inquiring after her well-being, offering a solicitous elbow to help her up. But she knew her Maestro was a lie, now. And hadn't she said she wanted to know _Erik_? "Hmm? Gerard can be scant on those little particular details, after all. He told you, I am sure, that I _must_ live like this. But did he tell you why?"

As he loomed over her, a flicker of fear passed over Christine's face for the first time in their acquaintance. Erik drew back, prickling shame starting to overtake anger. But it wasn't enough to stem the tide completely.

Christine looked up at him, voice fainter now. "He said you...he said you were disfigured. But that doesn't - "

"Don't  _tell me_ it doesn't matter!" Erik was shouting now and she flinched away from his voice, booming out in the tight space of the room. The fire was too hot, the walls too near. "You haven't lived with this face for - by God, Christine, you haven't even  _seen_ it!"

That was the greatest lie of them all. A lie of omission, but a lie nevertheless. Leading her to believe that he was a person of some status was nothing in the long-run. But he led her to believe that he was a _person_. That he had a human face rather than the mess that the mask hid from her so ably. All of this - the hovel he lived in, the meager existence, the petty theft, and pointlessness of it all, that wasn't the worst of it. She hadn't seen the worst. She couldn't even imagine it.

"So show me!" she insisted, some of her prior boldness coming back. Christine rose up onto her knees, which did not place her near enough to snatch at the mask, even to meet his eyes with ease, but she reached out to him and caught his wrists in her hands. "Show me! I'll tell you then that it doesn't matter! That you are  _not_ a monster. Because you aren't, Erik! You're...kind. And talented. And...beautiful." 

It wasn't shame cutting through his anger now; it was something much more brutal. Hope.

 _Perhaps it could be different with her_ , the angel - the devil? - reasoned in his mind.  _She might not be sickened. She might not be afraid. She might...she might..._

"Stop," he said, a sickness rising up from the depths of his soul as the devil (the angel?), cut through the hopeful thoughts to insist that it could never be. That he'd do better to throw her over his shoulder and drag her upstairs kicking and screaming than to let her see him. There was a buzzing in his ears that overtook both voices; the room seemed to warp and fade around him.

"You are!" she continued, fingernails digging into the cuffs of his shirt. "You have a beautiful soul, I've heard it in your music and seen it in your eyes!"

_The eyes are Gerard's. You've seen his eyes. A man's eyes. That's the one natural thing about it. Christine, you don't understand. And if you did see, you'd run. I know you would. Everyone else has._

"I am asking you - _please_ \- " he barely managed to grit out the courtesy. "To stop."

"Only if you say you do not love me will I stop," Christine said steadily. 

The room went out of focus again; Erik's knees were like water and he sank down to the floor. 

 _She seems so sure. Christine looks at you...like_ she _used to. But_ she _was looking at your own face. Christine looks only at the mask._

"You say you are a monster," Christine said, inching closer to him. Kneeling down as they both were, she could finally look into his eyes properly. Erik had no idea what she saw there, but her own eyes were wide and pleading. Filled with the same ridiculous hope he was trying to quell within himself. "Well, I say monsters cannot love. Do you...do you love me, Erik?"

He did not say yes. But he did not say no, either.

It was too much, she was too close, but he could no more tear his hands out of her grip than he could break through iron shackles. "You don't know what you're asking."

"I _do_ ," she insisted with such force that he almost believed her. "I know...I know your face can be looked at by someone who loves you. Let me...let _me_."

Love. Oh yes, Erik had loved a few select people in his life. But to be loved in return? Only one person. Only one person _ever_. And it was the promise of that, of being loved, more than the notion of a life in the world above, of being a man, even, that made him close his eyes and nod his head in ascent. 

Christine let go of him and clasped her hands; she looked every bit the baleful Madonna, eyes raised to heaven, face pale and steady. Only she wasn't looking at heaven. She wasn't about to see anything like heaven. 

Erik sat back down on his haunches and, with trembling fingers, raised his hand to the ties of the mask. How long had it been since he'd taken it off like this? In front of a waiting audience. Ten years, yet the smell of the outdoors, the heat of the sun, the noise of the crowd came back at once. He tried to find a place outside himself when he revealed himself, then. Tried to listen to birdsong or the feel of the sun, the whistling of the wind.

 _At least I can hear the birds_ , he used to console himself as the screams and retching started. _At least I can see the trees. At least...at least..._

But here there was only the crackle and pop of the fire, the stuffy damp heat of the underground room. He wasn't even brave enough to look at Christine's beatific face. Ever the coward, he closed his eyes when he took the mask off. 

The world seemed to tilt and there was an instant where he wasn't sure if he was a man kneeling on carpeted stone or a boy standing on a rickety stage. Whether the labored breaths were Christine's or his own. Whether the gagging and aborted screams came from the crowd or from her own throat.

He only opened his eyes when he heard the dull thud of her body hitting the floor. There was a thin sheen of sweat on her face and neck. The bluish veins of her eyelids stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin. The slow rise and fall of her chest was the only indication that the monster had not truly slain the maid.

Instead, the monster curled up, mask dropping from its numb fingers to the floor between them. Deep underground, the monster wept, deep shuddering sobs that used to rise up through the stone and ventilation tunnels. The sound that gave rise to the Opera ghost rumor in the first place.

She could not look. She did not love him. It was all over.


End file.
